Thumb on a Diamond Read Free

us her crown jewels.
    â€œYes.”
    Mr. Entwhistle removed his glasses, put them away and sat back down on the couch, still staring at the painting.
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” he said. “One of her best. I know she maintains a cottage somewhere on this coast but she could live anywhere. She’s one of the most famous painters in the world. I went to an exhibit of her work at the Tate Gallery in London.”
    Before Dad could tell Mr. Entwhistle that Annie lived next door, Charlie Semanov, our mayor when we needed one (which wasn’t often), opened the door and poked his head inside. He spotted Mr. Entwhistle and then pulled his head back outside and closed the door.
    I glanced out the window. People were standing in front of our house, staring at the door. Village houses are built close to the sidewalk. We walk in front of them so much that it is considered impolite to stare into anyone’s windows. Big Charlie was talking excitedly.
    The fog was lifting. I could even see the bottom slopes of mountains across the basin. Another crowd down by the dock was looking at Mr. Entwhistle’s rowboat. I could see people shielding their eyes from the glare of the thin fog as they searched the bay for a larger boat that didn’t belong to anyone in the village.
    Our door opened again and Big Charlie held it open so people could tramp inside.
    â€œThis is Mr. Gerald Entwhistle,” said Dad, standing up. “His boat sank.”
    â€œAre you a fisherman?” asked Big Charlie Semanov in his booming voice.
    Big Charlie was a man who liked to hug people. He hugged people on their birthdays and even for catching a big fish. I knew that he wanted to rush over and hug this man for having lost his boat because to a fisherman, losing a boat is almost as bad as losing a family member. But he also needed to find out if this stranger had been trying to catch the fish along our shore. Big Charlie and some of the other fishermen seemed to think that anyone fishing in our bay was like a cattle rustler, even though our fish weren’t branded.
    â€œNo,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “I am not a fisherman. I’m an Englishman.”
    â€œWould you like a cup of coffee?” Dad asked Mr. Entwhistle.
    â€œYes. Please,” said Mr. Entwhistle, turning his head to nod.
    It was a shame that Mr. Entwhistle turned his head. He didn’t see Big Charlie race across the room, his arms outstretched like a football player. He didn’t see Big Charlie until it was impossible not to see Big Charlie since Mr. Entwhistle’s entire body was surrounded by nothing but Big Charlie.
    Big Charlie hugged him. I heard Mr. Entwhistle mumble something and noticed that his shoes weren’t touching the ground.
    Big Charlie let go. Then he slapped Mr. Entwhistle on the back so hard that the poor man almost fell over.
    â€œWhat was her name?” asked Big Charlie.
    â€œMy…boat?” asked Mr. Entwhistle, trying to catch his breath.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œBernice,” said Mr. Entwhistle.
    â€œAh,” said Big Charlie, nodding. “Named after your mother, your wife, or your daughter?”
    â€œA beaver,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “An imaginary beaver.”
    â€œCoffee’s ready,” said Dad, setting a cup on our table as Big Charlie scratched his head. Big Charlie had never heard of a boat named for an imaginary anything and didn’t quite know what to say.
    When Mr. Entwhistle had finished his coffee, Big Charlie invited him to step outside and take a look at the village. The crowd behind Big Charlie Semanov was beginning to break up. I could hear the diesel engines of fishing boats fire up. Horns sounded, with special beeps telling crew members to get down to the dock. The fishing boats would be leaving soon.
    Susan and I sauntered along behind Big Charlie and Mr. Entwhistle as they retraced our steps. Annie Pritchard